


Out of the Fire

by ThorneofAcre



Series: The (Mis)Adventures of the Musketeers [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Protective Musketeers, injured d'Artagnan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:42:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1208155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThorneofAcre/pseuds/ThorneofAcre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once the adrenaline wears of d'Artagnan realizes just how close he came to getting blown to hell. The others are there to help him through the panic attack</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Fire

_“I should have strangled you at the Chatelet, saved myself a lot of trouble.”_

_“Why didn’t you?”_

_“For the fun of it.”_

It was over. The king and queen were safe. Vadim was killed. The items of the treasury were recovered and all was well.

It was over.

The evening air hit d’Artagnan’s face as they stood on the rocky beach, the musketeers sheathing their swords. Aramis knelt to say a quick prayer over the dead man’s body and it sank in for d’Artagnan. He was alive.

But only because some lunatic had thought it would be fun to see how far he could take a trick.

His hands started trembling, his vision blurred and his breathe came in rapid gasps. He bent down, hoping the panic would subside before his weakness was noticed by the musketeers who seemed completely unaffected and at ease. He did not want to appear weary or worse, afraid in front of them.

But it seemed that his body had finally caught up with the exhaustion of being on edge for two days. The adrenaline was fading and the reality of his very close encounter with death was settling in. His closed his eyes as his knees gave out and he would have fallen if not for a pair of strong arms which caught him and lowered him to the ground slowly.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. You’re okay. It’s over.” Aramis murmured in his ear, “Come on, breath.”

D’Artagnan blushed, ashamed to meet the musketeer’s eyes. He knew he should straighten himself out, but his body seemed to seek the comfort that Aramis’s presence was promising and his shoulders sagged. His breathe started evening out as he copied Aramis who was breathing deeply. But the trembling and the pounding of blood in his ears wouldn’t subside.

“I’m sorry. I am…” d’Artagnan sought out Athos, the man whose regard and trust he had hoped to win by succeeding in this mission. The older musketeer was standing nearby, looking at him with concern and worry. D’Artagnan looked away, mortified at how feeble his voice sounded. “I couldn’t get out of the ropes fast enough and stop the fuse…”

“D’Artagnan you did good. Now look at me.” Aramis held his chin in his hand and did not let go until d’Artagnan met his eyes. “I need to see if you have a concussion from that nice gash you have on your head.”

Athos came over and knelt beside the pair on the ground. “How is he?”

“He has a concussion, he has lost a lot of blood and…” Aramis fell silent as he caught sight of d’Artagnan’s hands, which he had been clutching between his knees to stop them from shaking. He grasped them softly and lifted them up so he could inspect the damage.

His wrists were completely shredded, colored a dirty purple and an angry red in places while bleeding sluggishly in others. Aramis looked horrified and even Athos gasped. It was the latter who managed to put into question what all three of them were thinking: “What happened?”

D’Artagnan tried to shake free his hands and brush it off. He did not need their pity.

“Would you stop being a stubborn idiot for a minute and let Aramis take care of that?” Athos snapped at him sharply.

“Athos, calm down.” Porthos advised from behind him. “The lad has been through enough. He does not need you screaming at him right now.”

“God!” Athos sighed exasperatedly and stood up, taking a step back. He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed at his face. “You want me to calm down? I told you people this was a bad idea. _What were we thinking?”_

D’Artagnan winced, Athos’s words cutting deeper than those ropes had managed to. Aramis saw it and frowned. “Don’t worry about Athos. He hasn’t slept in two days, worried sick about how you were doing. And that’s just how he gets whenever one of his men are hurt on a mission.” 

Porthos had torn off a clean piece of his tunic and was giving strips of it to Aramis who tied them around d’Artagnan’s wrists. D’Artagnan tried to stifle the gasps of pain but Aramis heard them anyway. He winced sympathetically.

“I’m sorry, but if I don’t wrap these cuts until I can put some salve on them, the cuts will fester and that would not be pretty.” He looked at Athos and beckoned him over. “Can you hold his arms while I tie these together?”

Athos nodded and knelt beside d’Artagnan who despite the earlier admonishment tried once again to explain himself “I am sorry the mission went so wrong. I should have known he was playing me and tricking me into giving you wrong information. He had me tied to the barrels with the gunpowder and I managed to stop one fuse but there were so many of them, and then by the time I got free, it was too late and  he almost got away and… -.”

He trailed away noticing the horror on Athos’s face. He looked at Aramis and Porthos for support but found equally horrified expressions adorning each of their faces too. He gulped, realizing that he had probably ruined all his chances of getting into their good graces now.

Athos’s voice was deceptively calm as he asked, “He tied you to the barrels of gunpowder?”

D’Artagnan refused to look at him and silently nodded. Aramis took in a sharp breath and Porthos swore quietly beside him.

“Aramis did you pray for that vermin’s soul to find rest?” Athos asked, trying not to think of the haunted look in the young Gascon’s eyes or the terror he must have felt tied to tons of gunpowder, waiting to be blown up.

Aramis’s own hands were shaking as he tied the last strips into loose but firm knots. He nodded, not letting go of d’Artagnan’s hands. “I did, though God would probably understand if I don’t feel very charitable right now and want to damn him to the darkest confines of hell.”

“Aye, I wish he wasn’t so dead right now, just so that I could run him through myself.” Porthos’s voice was gruff, “repeatedly.”

Athos nodded in agreement and took a deep breathe. “D’Artagnan, I am going to say this once so you listen to me very carefully.” He waited until d’Artagnan looked at him and met his eyes. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You did very well. We had no right to ask this much of you. You are not trained to handle such situations and yet you managed to get out. You proved your bravery and loyalty today and I am proud of you.”

D’Artagnan looked at him and blinked, the meaning of what he was saying slowly dawning on him. “But I didn’t stop the explosions, the destruction…”

Athos smiled. “You are allowed to destroy a few things every now and then, you are allowed to break a few rules and do whatever you need to do to get out alive.” His voice suddenly became hard and all traces of mirth disappeared from his face as he gripped the front of d’Artagnan’s shirt. “The only thing you are not allowed to do, under any circumstance, is die. Not on my watch, not now, not _ever_. Is that understood?”

D’Artagnan looked at the older man and understood him perfectly. The concern and relief in his eyes said all that he did not put into words clearly. He nodded, not trusting his voice to remain steady if he tried to speak. Athos searched his face for confirmation that he had indeed gotten the message and then satisfied, let him go. He shook his head and stood up.

“Right, Porthos go on ahead and get three horses ready to get back to the barracks. Aramis, get his other hand.” He gestured before grasping one of d’Artagnan’s hands and slinging it over his shoulders, his own arm going around his waist, pulling him up from where he was sitting on the rocks.

D’Artagnan let out a surprised and extremely unmanly yelp which made Aramis snicker even as he took his other hand and carried the rest of his weight. “I can walk on my own, I am not some damsel in distress,” he protested petulantly.

“Are you sure about that?” Aramis asked. “You wouldn’t look out of place in a dress.”                                   

D’Artagnan tried to glare at him but just then another wave of exhaustion overcame him and his world tilted. The grip on his waist became tighter, and Athos glared at Aramis until the latter started walking quietly.

“You probably are just stubborn enough to make it back without help, even in your condition.” Athos said softly. “But what you need to learn is that as long as even one of us is around, you don’t _need_ to.”

No more words were exchanged after that. None were needed.

 

 


End file.
